Masquerade
by resauthor
Summary: A brand new story written in 2019 based on a challenge from D of the DA's Office. The challenge: A pre-relationship one-shot story about Chris and Rita at a masquerade party. To make it more interesting (difficult!) she wanted them to be clueless about each other's identity. Set in Season 3 - Halloween 1993. This is not a Classic Moment.


**Author's Notes**: Right up front I need to explain that I have not written a new story in almost twenty years and had no plans to attempt one anytime soon. But… fellow fanfic author (and personal friend), D of the DA's Office, gave me a challenge on Halloween morning. She challenged me to write a pre-relationship one-shot story about Chris and Rita at a masquerade party. Just to make it more interesting, she wanted them to be clueless about each other's identity. She caught me in a weak moment with a really good idea, so for the first time in almost two decades, I'm posting something completely new. This story is not a_ Classic Moment_. The Classic Moments Archive will always be limited to the 25 stories that were originally posted all those years ago (another ten of them are awaiting my attention). Masquerade is simply a standalone, uncategorized, attempt at romantic fluff. And canon? Well, me worrying about canon is the equivalent of me writing a 1,000-words-or-less story. Probably never going to happen.

**Masquerade**

by: resauthor

**Homicide Detective Rita Lance** glanced at the empty chair across from her. Her partner had been gone more than two weeks now, working on a special assignment in the neighboring city of West Palm. She missed him. She always missed him when they had to work apart. It wasn't just that they functioned so effectively as a homicide team. More importantly, everything just felt in balance, personally and professionally, when her other half was there to bounce ideas off of or talk through difficulties with a case. Chris instinctively knew when to inject a little humor into the harsh realities of their job. He lifted her spirits and kept them both from staying too long in the dark places they often found themselves. Didn't hurt that they were also in sync as friends.

"Have you heard from him?"

She glanced in the direction of her boss's office. Captain Harry Lipschitz, fiftyish and more bookish than brawny with dark hair graying at the temples, was making his way toward her with an armful of case files.

"Hey, Cap."

"Any word from Lorenzo?" he asked again, setting the stack down on the corner of her desk.

Rita was surprised by the worry she sensed in his voice. She knew he wasn't fond of loaning out his detectives to other departments, especially those in another city, but he had okayed several requests already in his short term as captain. "He isn't due back until next Wednesday," she reminded him.

"I know that, Lance."

"Plus, he's undercover," she added quickly. "Deep undercover, from what I understand. You haven't heard anything?"

"Nothing. The whole thing is hush-hush," Harry admitted. "You know how much he loves playing with the Vice squad. I just hope he returns when he's supposed to."

"No kidding. He's usually glowing for days afterward."

"Vice is a young man's game," Harry added with a reluctant grin, his tone wistful.

"Or a young woman's…"

"Touché," he nodded, his grin widening. "Don't tell me you're thinking about going off on assignment now."

"No way, Cap." Rita eyed the new stack of files on her desk. "There's enough work right here to keep me busy."

"Speaking of which… it's Friday night, Lance. Don't stay too late." Harry reached for a piece of candy from the small ceramic pumpkin on her desk. "Any Halloween plans this year?"

"No. I received an invite, but the party is on Sunday and it would take more energy than I can muster to prepare for such a thing."

"I _hate_ dressing up for Halloween," Harry declared vehemently. "Nothing worse than having to come up with a cheesy outfit, wasting all that time and money just for the sake of looking ridiculous. You can't imagine the costumes Frannie has tried to talk me into wearing over the years."

"Tell me more…"

"Not on your life!" He popped the candy into his mouth and headed for the door.

"Are you blushing, Cap?" she asked with a laugh. He didn't look back, which was probably a good thing.

"I'm outta here, Lance."

….

**The undercover assignment** had been long and challenging, but the opportunity to work in Vice again for three weeks had been too tempting for Palm Beach homicide detective Chris Lorenzo to pass up. Loaned out to the West Palm PD in order to help with a sting operation, the adrenaline rush had been just as addictive as he remembered, but two and a half weeks into it, he was surprisingly relieved when his participation in the case wrapped up early.

Special assignments were always a mixed bag, especially when it came to Vice; especially when it came to working in West Palm, a community currently known for having the highest crime rate in America for a city of its size. The team of undercover Vice officers he left behind would be continuing their long-term infiltration of a street-level drug network. Their center of operations was a dumpy two-bedroom tenement located in one of the poorest, most dangerous neighborhoods in the city.

So here he was after a late Saturday night debrief and release of duty, finally back at the loft. His throat felt raw, his voice was nearly gone after weeks spent in character as an angry, antagonistic thug, constantly breathing in cigarette smoke and eating bad food, all the while getting very little sleep. Oh yeah, he'd been living the dream, but the dream now was a hot shower and a clean bed, both of which had been in short supply for him in West Palm. He dropped his duffle bag onto the bedroom floor and ran a hand over his jaw. The scraggly two and a half weeks of growth on his chin was the beginning of a decent beard, but he wasn't a beard type of guy. It would have to go. Although, it might be fun letting Rita get a look at it. He knew she'd have something to say on the subject and that was a thought that made him smile. Decision made. The shave could wait, but the hot shower could not; nor could catching up on some serious bunk time.

Stripping down on the way to the bathroom, he eyed the phone next to his bed. He should call Rita, just to let her know he was back in town early. He had missed her. He always missed her when he found himself partnered with someone else on a case. Years spent working side by side with someone who was also his best friend had spoiled him. They often caught themselves speaking in short cuts, laughing at the same thing at the same time or even finishing each other's sentences. The job just wasn't the same when they weren't working it together. Going deep undercover meant they hadn't had any contact at all during his time in West Palm.

He seriously thought about calling her, but the hour was late and he was exhausted. The fact that she wasn't expecting to see him until midweek sealed the deal. It would be selfish to wake her up.

….

By noon the next day, he was finally awake and starting to feel like himself again. The peacefulness of the loft helped with the reset back into his own life. His apartment looked exactly as it did the day he left for West Palm, except for the large stack of mail on the island counter. Rita had been stopping by regularly and bringing it in from the mailbox for him. Sitting on a bar stool with coffee in hand, he sorted through the pile, tossing junk mail to one side and bills to the other.

One greeting card-sized envelope stood out from the rest. It was thicker than the others, with his name and address handwritten in fancy black script. The return address was Belton Court, Palm Beach, a high-end section of the city, and it was postdated two days after he had left on assignment.

The invitation inside was intriguing. He had been invited to a Halloween party, but today was the 31st and it was taking place in less than eight hours. No way in hell was his first reaction. He wasn't fond of Halloween parties; he didn't have a costume and he hadn't been back in town early enough to RSVP before the deadline. He was also tired and emotionally drained from the drama of the last two and a half weeks.

But reading further made him stop and reconsider. There was a twist to this party. A twist that would benefit several local charities including Night Moves, an outreach center where Rita regularly volunteered. He quickly dialed her apartment, but the answering machine picked up. He disconnected without leaving a message. Included with the invitation was a list of theatrical warehouses and costume shops. One name stood out. This close to the party, it was probably his only hope.

Somewhat reluctantly, he dialed. It was answered on the second ring.

"Cotton's Costumes and Theatre Props. From Barney to Othello – I'm your fellow!"

….

Several hours later, Chris opened the front door of the loft to find Cotton Dunn standing on the threshold with a suit bag in one hand and a hatbox in the other. A hatbox?

"You look like hell," were the first words out of Cotton's mouth.

"Nice to see you, too," Chris shot back, running his fingers through the whiskers Cotton was eyeballing as he walked past.

"Check it out, Chris," Cotton babbled excitedly, the detective's unexpected lack of grooming already forgotten. "There wasn't much left to choose from, but this is perfect for you. I dug it out of the back room."

Chris unzipped the suit bag and tilted his head to one side. He was confused. "Whose back room?"

"Never mind. You don't want to know."

Cotton was probably right about that.

"Pull it out of there, buddy," the gregarious con man directed. "It's gonna look great."

"What's in the box?"

"The mask and hairpiece."

"I am not wearing a wig, Cotton. I did not ask you for a wig."

"It's not a wig… relax buddy. I've got the face mask, the gloves, and even an ascot in here. You know… one of those fancy English ties. That suit you're holding is a full-on period piece costume made for the stage. Feel that material. It's expensive stuff! Your own mother wouldn't recognize you. You want to remain a mystery, don't you?"

"That would be the goal." Especially if I'm going to look like a fool, he admitted silently to himself.

"Ready to try it on?"

Chris eyed the suit hesitantly. The size looked about right, and Cotton's assessment of the material was spot on. Up close, it was slightly worn from use, but definitely expensive and still in great shape. He would have preferred black, this color was out of character for him, but he wasn't feeling much like his usual self anyway. Besides, once his last-minute RSVP had been accepted, he knew he would attend no matter what Cotton came up with for a costume. It was for a good cause.

"Let's do it," he finally answered.

"I'll go get the boots out of the car and then we can talk about the rental fee."

….

**What a night it was turning out to be! ** Being hit on by drunk Elvis was almost as disturbing as being groped by Jack the Ripper. Why was she here again? Charity – that's right, she was getting groped for charity. It was amazing how quickly people dropped their inhibitions once the face mask went on. They acted as if it was a license to misbehave, forgetting that 10 pm was the hour of the big reveal. All masks would be removed, but would all misdeeds be forgiven? She would bide her time until then and be grateful that the costume she wore was a period piece that kept her padded and covered, protected from leering eyes and wayward hands. If Rachel, the director of Night Moves hadn't had an emergency that kept her at home tonight, she would be the one in the fancy nineteenth-century ballgown representing the organization that was so near and dear to both their hearts. Rita would have been happily ensconced in her apartment, handing out Halloween candy to the few kids that regularly trick-or-treated in her building. She hitched up her full skirt and peeked at the five-inch-high chunky heeled shoes hiding underneath. The costume had been meant for someone much taller, someone like Rachel who was at least five foot nine or ten. The shoes were borrowed from Rachel's cousin, but at least they were comfortable.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Elvis weaving his way toward her side of the main room again and that was her cue to start moving in the direction of the French doors and the beautifully lit backyard where a live band was playing.

Halfway there she was once again unnecessarily crowded by a costumed guest. This one was a grown man in a red cape and blue tights, his face hidden by a mask portraying the chiseled cheekbones and slicked-back hair of a famous superhero. His hands settled firmly on her corseted waist and she was just about to let him have it, both verbally and physically when another guest stepped in and grabbed him forcibly by the upper arm. All she could see at first was the black leather glove that tightened around the superhero's arm, resulting in her immediate release.

"Leave!" the gravelly voice commanded, and that's exactly what the not-so-super man did.

She turned to look directly into the eyes of the man who had assisted her. It was impossible to see them clearly because of the white skull mask that covered most of his face, ending just above his lower lip. His stubble was a shade lighter than the shiny black length of hair that was combed back, curling under at the nape of his neck.

"Red Death," were the first words out of her mouth, although she had meant to say thank you. The stranger's costume of choice was unexpected. The high-collared red waistcoat with tails, the stylishly arranged black silk cravat, and the matching red pants were unmistakable.

Had she remembered to stay in character? Rachel had tried to give her a few pointers about speaking with a French accent, but the best she had been able to do was slightly alter her own voice to add a little mystery.

"Red Death?" he questioned back in the same raspy, authoritative tone that had immediately stopped the unwanted attention from another man.

Suddenly, the night was all about possibilities. "Your costume," she explained in her latest attempt to sound old-world European and cultured. To her own ears, she was sounding more like a southern belle. "I recognize it from Phantom. The masquerade scene."

Her red phantom bowed slightly and held out a hand in invitation as he gestured to the French doors she had once been so interested in exiting.

"Having fun, you two?" Their connection was interrupted by their host for the evening. Well into his seventies, but as energetic as a twenty-year-old, Milton Salzburg was a wealthy philanthropist Rita had met several times when she and Chris were working a case the previous year. "What do you think of my wife's little twist on the usual Halloween theme?"

"It's a wonderful opportunity for local charities," she responded with sincerity. The world needed more couples like the Salzburgs. They supported a multitude of great causes, using their power and influence to encourage others to give just as generously. Tonight, was the perfect example. Wealthy friends intermingled with civil servants and representatives from many of the organizations that would benefit from the party's proceeds.

"You two seem to be in the proper spirit of things. Did the Phantom and Christine come together?" The older gentleman's eyes danced with mischief befitting his Beetlejuice costume.

Rita glanced at the mystery man in red standing next to her. Her face under her black and white mask was undoubtedly the same color as his waistcoat. "We aren't together," she corrected the older man's assumption quickly. "I'm happy to be part of the chorus."

Milton Salzburg took hold of her gloved hand and raised it to his lips for a chivalrous kiss. "Never, my dear. You were born to be a headliner." He turned to the silent man by her side. "Treat her well," he instructed. "Too many of the guests tonight have forgotten that I know each of their identities behind the mask. Their behavior has not gone unnoticed," he added, turning back to Rita.

That was awkward, she couldn't help thinking as their host walked away.

"Shall we?" her companion inquired, indicating his desire to lead her outside.

At her nod of acceptance, his left hand took hold of hers and his right settled lightly on the small of her back. Dressed as they both were, with her white-gloved hand held firmly by his black leather-covered fingers, there was no accurate way to describe their exit other than to say they glided through the French doors. It was mind-blowing, really. And unexpectedly romantic. Somehow, they had both ended up in costumes from the same era, possibly the same stage production. It almost felt like a setup, but that wasn't possible. The choice of costume had been Rachel's and Rachel hadn't said anything about meeting someone at the party.

…

**Entering the mansion** a short time earlier, Chris had found himself unexpectedly grateful for the mask. It hid his apprehension, a feeling that had settled within him the instant he pulled up to the front of the house. Handing the Charger keys to the twenty-something who worked for the private car parking service had felt like handing away his identity.

The gleaming entryway of the Salzburg home didn't make him feel any better. It was tastefully decorated for Halloween, but it was a jarring contrast to the apartment he had slept in just two nights earlier. To be surrounded by such wealth after all he had observed during the last few weeks was unsettling, to say the least. Maybe he should have stayed home.

He was standing alone at the edge of the great room, studying the crazy cast of costumed characters that filled it, when the evening's hostess approached. She slipped an arm through his and gave his padded shoulder a friendly rub.

"Glad you made it, Sgt. Lorenzo."

He glanced down at Mary Salzburg and returned her smile. He had spoken to her earlier in the day when calling to see if it was still possible to attend. "I am definitely off the clock right now, Cleopatra. Please call me Chris."

She toyed with a strand of her dark wig and threw him a saucy wink. "Take two steps forward and names won't matter for the next two hours. You read the invitation. Stay in character until 10 pm and your charity of choice gets an extra percentage of the proceeds."

"A bit unusual, but I'm happy to help."

Mary laughed in response and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Milton thinks I'm crazy, but it's not easy prying money out of our neighbors' pockets. Selfish creatures that many of them are, if I get creative and give them an interesting challenge to alleviate their boredom, they come through in the end. It's all in fun and definitely for a good cause."

Chris nodded in understanding, happy to spend a few minutes with the kind, generous, woman who did so much for the communities outside of her own. He still felt out of place, but he only planned to stay a couple of hours. Once the philanthropic portion of this crazy show was over, he'd be on his way home once again.

And that was when he saw her. In a room with so many half-naked women wearing costumes that flaunted every asset, she stood apart. He thought it was her amazing hair that first drew his attention, but looking back on that moment later in the evening, he knew it was much more than that. The long dark hair that flowed halfway down her back in shimmering auburn waves couldn't be her own. The curls that framed her face were of a style that matched her costume. No, it wasn't her hair that propelled him toward her. It was the way she carried herself and held herself apart from the mischief all around her. She stood tall, not in judgment, but as if dignity and grace were a part of her very being. He was curious. Intrigued. He knew she was wearing a mask, but he wanted to see her face and look into her eyes. He hoped to find intelligence and kindness there. It was important to him that she not be one of the vapid, bored rich women that regularly attended these high society parties.

Closing the distance between them, he spotted Elvis making a beeline for the same destination. With a silent apology to the dearly departed original who deserved much better than a clearly drunk living representative, he purposely crossed the inebriated man's path and changed the trajectory of the bejeweled white jumpsuit with a strategically placed shoulder block. In the few seconds required by that maneuver, the redhead had moved on and was making her way toward the back of the house. He followed the flowing white dress as best he could, his peripheral vision narrowed by the white mask he wore. It was a ridiculous situation he found himself in. The knee-high black boots were a size too large, he was stuffed into a what could only be described as a red velvet suit, and he was wearing a damn wig. The hair might be attached to a mask, but it was a wig nonetheless. And it made him sweat. He might as well be talking about a Santa suit.

His discomfort was forgotten when he noticed the woman being approached by another guest. Was this her date? Her reaction to being grabbed by the waist, suggested no. He moved to help, anger quickening his steps. He took hold of the overly friendly superhero with a vise-like grip around the man's upper arm, pulling him away.

"Leave!" Speaking with such force hurt his throat more than anticipated. The woman turned and looked directly at him. He swallowed hard. She was tall, her eyes level with his, but the shadows created by the holes in her mask prevented him from knowing their color. He sensed her smile of thanks, rather than saw it. Her lips, too, remained a mystery. Even her ballgown allowed only limited glimpses of the real woman who wore it so well. Her bare neck and throat were graceful; the skin smooth as satin. The gentle swell of her breasts pushed against the jeweled lace neckline. Almost every other inch of her was covered, but everything about her captivated him further.

"Red Death."

Her voice was calm, her accent muffled and unfamiliar, but he wasn't disappointed. Once again, he was intrigued. Although her words confused him. "Red Death?" he asked, inwardly cringing at the raspy sounds coming out of his mouth. Outwardly, he stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, his head held high. To do anything else in the clothing he wore would have looked even more foolish.

"Your costume," his mystery redhead continued.

He gave her his full attention.

"I recognize it from Phantom. The masquerade scene."

What the hell? Cotton hadn't said anything about dressing him up as Death. Talk about a mood killer. But something about the way she spoke assured him it was a positive in her eyes. He hadn't been living in a cave – he knew the story of Phantom, but he had never seen the musical. Her costume and his suddenly made sense. He bowed because it seemed the right thing to do and offered a hand to lead her outside. He didn't want to lose sight of her again. Before she could agree, they were interrupted by their host, Mary's husband, Milton.

Milton Salzburg was a real character even when he wasn't dressed up in a black and white striped Beetlejuice suit complete with the oversized white wig and brilliantly applied theatrical makeup. The Palm Beach multi-millionaire had been very helpful to the Silk Stalking detail when an acquaintance of his had been suspected of murdering his mistress a year or two ago. Rita had been the first one to interview him, but he had joined her on subsequent visits to the Salzburg home for follow up questions. Milton and his wife Mary were good people. Chris studied the older man as he interacted with the woman he had referred to as Christine. Based on what Milton was saying, he knew the real identity of every guest. It was also clear that Milton thought highly of Christine, whoever she was. That little bit of information might come in handy.

"Treat her well."

Milton's comment had been addressed to him. His slight nod assured their host that the message had been understood.

As Beetlejuice cheerfully bounded away to talk to other guests, Chris made a decision. "Shall we?" he murmured, leaning closer to speak privately, unconsciously staking a claim. He held out his left hand, palm side up, waiting for her to respond. When her white-gloved hand came to rest in his, his fingers closed gently around it. His other hand settled at the small of her back, the black glove in stark relief against the white of her ballgown. Unable to get too close because of the fullness of her skirt, he was slightly behind her as they exited the French doors.

….

**Rita glanced around** the well-manicured garden as she walked side by side down one of the paved pathways with the quiet man in red. As ridiculous as it sounded, she missed his touch the second he released her. It was noisy outside with more than a hundred voices trying to be heard above the loud, pulsating dance music. Each time one of the Halloween Top Ten songs would start, the crowd of dancers would swell and the noise level would skyrocket. They had both instinctively headed further into the garden, seeking a quieter spot before attempting conversation.

As hedonistic as some Halloween parties could become, she was grateful the Salzburgs had set a more balanced tone for this one, making sure each of the five charities featured had informational posters both inside the house and outside by the bar. But that, of course, didn't stop couples from seeking passionate liaisons behind the bushes or in any other dark corner they could find. The most unusual of which was someone dressed as a tea bag, rolling around with someone else in a giant yellow banana costume. She looked away quickly. Nothing to be gained by trying to figure that one out. This was Palm Beach after all.

"Your costume is beautiful."

She glanced quickly at the man beside her. Each time he spoke, his voice took her by surprise. It was so unexpectedly low and textured, she wanted to hear more, to draw him out and solve a bit of the mystery. Not too much though. She would find out his name soon enough. Right now, without knowledge of who he was or what he did, without any sense of what he looked like other than he was wonderfully fit and held himself proudly, she was enjoying getting to know him through a completely different filter. The downside, of course, was that there might be a wedding ring hiding under one of those black leather gloves. That would be a disappointment.

"Thank you," she finally responded with a self-conscious dip of her head. "Yours isn't too bad, either."

"Last minute," he said. "There wasn't much to choose from."

"You chose well."

"Thank you."

The conversation was stilted. She questioned people for a living. She had to do better. "You say you decided to come last minute. What changed your mind?"

"The chance to help," he rasped, "but mostly to be here with you."

"Oh." His answer was either very romantic or remarkably unsettling. Her heart wanted to err on the side of romance, but she was far too pragmatic to let her guard down completely.

"My turn to ask a question."

This was unexpected, but not unwelcome. "Okay."

"Are you really a redhead?"

She laughed out loud, raising a hand to her mouth, nearly dislocating her mask. She could tell he enjoyed her response. His bottom lip curled up, dark whiskers shifted over his strong jawline. He had beautiful lips – well, a beautiful lower lip. She couldn't see any more than that, but she liked what she saw.

…

**He was in serious trouble**. Her lilting laughter, muffled though it may be, cut right through him and he wanted to hear it again. Badly. Without the masks between them. He didn't care what she looked like under there. Of that, he was already certain. Despite their limited opportunities for conversation, spending the last half hour with her had given him a deeper understanding of physical chemistry; that unspoken and often surprising, instant connection between a man and a woman. He felt it. Chemistry this strong needed to be explored. Ten o'clock couldn't come soon enough.

The path they were on led them back around to the large patio area. Just off to one side, Ariel could be seen in full body contact with Zorro. Really? Thankfully, the swordsman's black cape kept all their human parts hidden.

"Crazy night," he muttered, mostly to himself, but he could tell she heard the comment. He was learning her mannerisms. At the edge of the dance area now, he couldn't resist asking, "Would you like to dance?"

"I don't think I should."

He was immediately disappointed but held her gaze. Her eyes seemed lighter now under the strands of orange and purple lights strung from the wooden beams of the open-roofed patio cover. But their exact color was still a mystery. Did she not want to dance? Or did she not want to dance with him?

"Anything other than a waltz wouldn't seem right in this dress," she explained. "I don't think there's a waltz on the setlist tonight."

"Probably not," he had to admit. A sudden thought struck him. "Do you actually know how to waltz?"

The beautiful black and white mask tilted to the side. "No, I don't."

"Neither do I."

There it was again, the lilting laugh. He savored the accomplishment of having twice inspired its appearance. So much so, that when the pager in his pocket buzzed for the first time, it barely registered. He was too busy enjoying her company. Christine didn't seem to mind spending time with him either. Amidst the endless drone of music and party chatter, they tried to exchange pleasantries, but there were constant interruptions as she was approached by other guests. She was gracious to each one as they, more often than not, professed their appreciation for the stunning costume she wore so well. He had almost forgotten that beauty was currency in Palm Beach society.

The latest lothario in the making was a grown man in full pirate attire doling out compliments to her in rapid succession. Back off bucko, he silently warned, keeping the phantom's glare aimed directly at the one pirate eye not covered by a patch. Didn't Captain Hook realize how ridiculous he looked? But then again, was a skull mask and a red suit any less over the top? He was suddenly regretting the facial hair decision. He felt ragged and unkept.

Milton and Mary Salzburg approached their corner of the patio as the latest song ended and the band took a short break. "You two can't stand to be apart, can you?" Milton teased with a wink. He appeared to find something about his own comment very funny. His wife threw him a stern look, then softened it with a smile.

"Ignore him," she advised. "Although you two do make a stunning couple."

Chris' pager buzzed again, signaling a return to reality and responsibility. He couldn't ignore it. "Will you excuse me for a minute?"

Milton's expression turned serious. "Can I help you with something?"

"I might need to use the house phone," he explained, wishing he had brought a cellphone, but knowing the bulky device would not have fit in any of his pockets. The suit was too snug. It was with great reluctance that he made his apologies to Christine and Mary. He checked the pager as he followed Milton back inside. The phone number was the direct line to the captain in charge of Vice in West Palm. It had to be related to the case he'd been working on. A quick phone call confirmed that there had been an unexpected break and they needed him at the precinct as soon as possible. His thoughts immediately focused on logistics. A hasty stop at the loft to change was required. But what about the mysterious Christine? There were no options. He had to leave early, but he didn't want to leave without offering an explanation – or getting her phone number. He quickly returned to the French doors but Christine could no longer be seen on the patio.

"She's with Mary," their host explained.

Surprised, Chris looked over his right shoulder.

"They're getting ready for the costume awards and then the donation totals."

"I had hoped to help out Night Moves, but I have to leave immediately."

"We'll make sure your attendance tonight counts toward their total. It's a very worthy organization. Mary appreciates you making the effort to show up. Especially since you've been out of town for a while."

"How do you two know so much?"

"Eh," Milton shrugged. "We've been in Palm Beach for a long time. We hear things."

"I'd better go."

"Stay safe, Sgt. Lorenzo."

"Will do," he assured the older man. Every encounter with the Salzburg couple left him more impressed. He couldn't resist asking for one more favor. "One thing before I leave…"

"I can't give you her real name."

"Why not?"

"You'll find out soon enough. I already requested your car be brought around."

"Thank you, sir." Chris was reluctant but resigned. "I have to go," he said one last time before doing just that.

…

As late-night interrogations went, it was fairly standard, even with his apparent return from the dead; a fact that helped shock their suspect into an eventual confession. One scumbag less in the neighborhood, only a few hundred more for Vice to worry about. The undercover work would continue but without his participation. No regrets. He belonged in Palm Beach.

Despite his lack of sleep, he was determined to return to the PBPD and his partner the next morning.

….

"Lorenzo! You're back early!"

"Hey, Cap. I couldn't stay away."

"You did good work in West Palm. I just had a nice chat with the captain there."

"Thank you," he responded with a cocky grin. He tugged on the lapel of his mint green jacket and straightened his tie. It felt great to be back in normal clothes again. He had nothing but respect for the men and women who chose to stay in Vice, but Vice was not his game anymore. He knew this was where he belonged. He knew who he wanted watching his back.

"And you're looking none the worse for wear," Captain Lipschitz added, staring at him as if trying to figure out a puzzle. "Cut yourself shaving? Aren't you a little old for that?"

Chris pulled the small piece of tissue off his chin and wadded it up between his fingers. "Hard to shave when you're half asleep, Cap."

"Point taken. Did you hear from Rita yet this morning?"

"No, I tried to get her by phone yesterday but she wasn't in. I ended up getting called back to West Palm late last night and overslept this morning so I was rushed."

"Christopher!" The woman on both their minds breezed in through the swinging doors with a smile on her face. "You're back early!"

"So, I've been told." A huge smile automatically appeared. He had missed her like crazy.

"Undercover assignment complete?"

"Just my portion," he explained, his eyes alight with the memory. "I died a horrible violent death by gunfire. You would have been proud. I was poetry in motion."

"I'm impressed," she teased, grinning in response to his obvious joy. "But your voice sounds terrible. I'll get you a hot tea with honey. That should help."

He noticed the bag she was carrying. "Did you bring me a present?"

"No. A friend of mine is stopping by so I can return something to her."

"If the big reunion is over, can we please get to work?" the Captain interrupted. "Get your partner up to speed, Lance. We'll go over anything urgent after lunch."

"No problem, Cap."

"Good to have you back, Lorenzo."

"Thanks, Cap." Chris watched his boss disappear into his office and close the door. He could finally catch up with Rita. He had stories to share and they weren't all about Vice. "Miss me?"

"Of course," she automatically responded, heading for the coffee station. "Can't wait to hear all about it. Just wasn't the same around here without you."

"I would have called you last night if I didn't have to head back to West Palm. I have so many stories for you…"

"Chris!" Harry called out from his office doorway. "I need a word."

Chris grimaced and shot his partner a questioning look, but she just shrugged in response. "To be continued…" he promised.

**...**

"**I can't thank you enough, Rita."** Rachel, the director of Night Moves was animated and appreciative as she spoke to Rita. "You did it! And we wouldn't have received anywhere near as much as we did if you hadn't taken my place and wowed them all."

"What'd I miss?"

"Chris," Rita turned to her partner as he came to stand with them. "This is my friend, Rachel. She's the director of Night Moves."

Her partner's expression lit up. His smile was genuine as he introduced himself to Rachel and complimented her on the organization.

"I had to stop by this morning to thank your partner," Rachel explained. "I had a medical emergency at home yesterday and she stepped in to take my place at a very special event." She turned back to Rita. "I don't know how you did it, but the donation was twice what we expected."

"It was my pleasure," Rita assured her, memories of the evening still fresh, bringing a blush to her cheeks. "Which reminds me, I have your cousin's shoes. Please thank her for me."

Chris sent her a curious glance.

"I attended a Halloween party last night and the dress I wore was too long. Check these out." She pulled out the silver chunky-heeled shoes. "Can you imagine me in a huge ballgown?"

"You were at the party last night…."

Was that a question or a statement? Rita wondered. He appeared to change his mind about whatever else he had been about to say.

"Yes, at the Salzburg's," she explained. "You probably saw the invitation in your pile of mail." He was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite figure out. "You okay, partner?"

"Yeah, of course. I'm fine."

But Chris didn't seem fine. He looked away quickly, returning to his desk and taking a seat. Rachel was still talking, but he was no longer listening. He seemed to be more interested in the mug of hot tea in front of him. Maybe his throat was bothering more than she first suspected.

Rachel picked up the strange vibes and made her excuses, thanking Rita once again and offering to pick up the costume from her later in the week.

"What's wrong?" Rita asked as soon as they were alone, which was best friend shorthand for _spill it now or I'll harass you mercilessly until you crack._

"The shoes would explain why you were so tall." His eyes remained shuttered; his expression unreadable. "I noticed that right away when I got there."

Was he talking about the party? How could she have missed him?

"I didn't see you arrive," was all she could think of to say. The Salzburg mansion had been crowded and noisy, but she had been there for hours. It made no sense. "Your costume…"

"The red suit with the white mask?"

Wait… No… That wasn't possible. Her head was spinning as she tried to make sense of this bombshell information. She immediately replayed the night in her head as best she could. "Where did you get that costume on such short notice?"

"Cotton."

"Red Death." Just saying the words out loud made her wonder if she had said anything to embarrass herself. Why hadn't she caught on? Why hadn't he said something? Did he know she didn't know?

"Crazy, right?"

"Crazy…"

"Exactly."

"You weren't supposed to be back until late Tuesday."

"I got back late Saturday. When I saw the invite on Sunday, I wanted to help Night Moves. I know how much that program means to you."

What could she say without saying too much? The conversation had been vague so far and they were both tiptoeing around the details.

Knowing Chris as well as she did, she should have recognized him instantly despite the intriguing costume and mask. As a trained professional, she should have been able to identify him by body language and speech patterns. What was it about the unexpected environment last night that rendered her clueless about the presence of her best friend and partner right there by her side?

But all identities had been hidden and she thought he was still tied up in West Palm. With no preconceived notions or assumptions to work with, she had been dependent on instinct and vibe to assess those around her. Ultimately, her sense of connection and positive feelings for the man behind the skull mask had been dead on, but the romance and mystery of that special night disappeared in a puff of smoke. To her surprise, the disappointment she expected to feel in its place didn't appear.

She had obviously misread the situation out in the garden when he claimed to be there for her. He had simply been acting like the good friend that he was, following the rules of the crazy game that Mary Salzburg had cooked up. Chris was a great guy after all and there had always been an undeniable chemistry between them. If the magic of the night had nudged that chemistry down a more romantic path for her, veering out of the safer friendship lane where they purposely traveled, it was accidental and certainly not either of their faults. He had been there to support a great organization. No reason to freak out. "Of course, that was you."

**...**

**Had she known the entire time?** Chris wondered. And was she aware that he hadn't a clue until this very moment? Even more importantly, _why hadn't he recognized her?_ And would he have acted any differently if he had? All valid questions he was tempted to pursue, but he would never purposely do anything to make her feel uncomfortable and she seemed on the verge of that right now. The interruption from Vice now seemed like fate. It had saved him from the embarrassment of asking his own partner for her phone number. Looking back, there was only one thing he could be certain of - no matter who the mystery woman had turned out to be, every vibe she had given off and every moment of elegance he had witnessed would always be held in the same high esteem.

Rita was still sitting behind her desk, her expression unreadable. Knowing her as well as he did, there was a good chance she'd want to change the subject to a more comfortable topic, but he wasn't ready to let it go.

"You were the belle of the ball," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

She looked up and offered him a smirk. "Thanks for getting rid of those creeps for me. I wasn't looking forward to wrestling them to the ground in that massive dress."

"That would have been something." His return smile was genuine. It would be safer for her to assume he had been there to purposely knock away any of the jerks and drunkards that tried to hit on her. Wouldn't be the first time he served in that capacity for his best friend, whether she wanted him to or not. And she usually didn't. But men hit on her all the time, including many of the perps they dragged into the station. There was something about Rita that most men instantly recognized as worth knowing. Some of them hesitated to approach, sensing she was more than they deserved, not realizing she had her own insecurities when it came to relationships. Others tried to take shortcuts like buying her pretty things, but that never worked. She didn't care about their wealth or status as long as they weren't insecure about it. She needed someone who respected her strength and intelligence while having enough of their own to offer. She deserved as much. She was Rita.

"Why don't we sneak out of here and get caught up over breakfast?"

That perked him right up. "Excellent idea, Sam." He dared to meet her glance head-on. Thoughtful green eyes regarded him curiously. The Red Phantom and his Christine would be set aside for now, but they wouldn't be forgotten. There was much to think about.

Rita remained seated as if waiting for his next move.

He rose from his chair, determined to take her up on breakfast before she changed her mind. They hadn't spoken, other than at the party from behind their masks, in almost three weeks. Time spent in conversation over a good meal with his best friend had always put things right in the past. It was the best way he knew of to get over any awkwardness.

"Shall we?" he asked, automatically offering his left hand. How often had he made the same motion in the past without thinking anything of it? But this time, the memory of black leather and white satin slammed into him like a ton of bricks. He could tell by the startled way she glanced up that she was thinking the same thing. His hand fell away.

"I don't think so," Rita finally responded with a guarded smile and a determined shake of her head. She stood on her own and joined him in walking toward the department doors.

She was right to refuse, but a part of him remained curious. What if she had taken his hand? Would the chemistry he felt last night still be there? Why had the connection between them been so strong when he thought she was a stranger? A stranger whose face he could not see and whose heart he could not know. All questions that would have to be put aside for now.

Exiting the Homicide Division, they walked silently, side by side, down the winding corridor until they reached the exit to the parking lot. He held the glass door open for her to walk through ahead of him, but she hesitated on the threshold, standing between his chest and his outreached arm as she slipped her sunglasses over her eyes. Another mask? Her mouth was mere inches from his own. She was close enough for him to know she smelled like flowers. His body stirred to life, his thoughts returning to the garden of twinkling Halloween lights and the beautiful, mysterious woman who had walked by his side. Rita tilted her head as if studying his face. Whatever she was thinking was hidden behind the dark lenses. How had he not recognized her? It was inconceivable to him.

"I miss the beard." A heartbeat later, she had turned on her heel and was exiting the building.

"What?"

THE END

2019

….

Final thoughts: Costumes were inspired by online videos of the Masquerade/Why So Silent? musical number from the 2014 Phantom film.


End file.
